


almost hurt to see

by live_die_be, ShadedSilveringGrey



Series: beginnings of hearts [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Civic Arena, Other, Pittsburgh Penguins, Sentient Arena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_die_be/pseuds/live_die_be, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadedSilveringGrey/pseuds/ShadedSilveringGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the first game played on her ice was a loss. </p><p>(the last game played on her ice will be a loss as well. she appreciates this. it's fitting for her to end as she began.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	almost hurt to see

the first game played on her ice was a loss.

(the last game played on her ice will be a loss as well. she appreciates this. it's fitting for her to end as she began.)

she does not remember any sorrow or disappointment, for at the time it was irrelevant to her; she only remembers the exhilaration of the game.

the game—the game is what she _exists_ for. the game is _everything_.

she is selfish. the game is hers; she does not share what is hers with that which is not.

Mario is hers, so she shares. Mario has been hers since the first time he skated on her ice and heard her Song of blades and ice and clarity. that is simply the way it is. he is hers; she is his.

she Sang in his mind during games; his hockey was beautiful, and she was grand. he brought the Cup back to her twice, and then once more with his little ones.

(if anything, the one regret that she has is that she never got to see them win a Cup on her ice. she saw one win. one bitter, angry win.)

but overall, she is always glad and enthusiastic because she fights, and she _wins_. she knows the value of winning and—unfortunately—losing. the old-loved and new-loved talk about all that. and she hears them, as they talk.

but they've always talked, and it's never meant much. they talk a great deal, and it's noise. she understands them through their thoughts and feelings and minds. she knows.

but these whispers in her corridors, of Another, of _someplace else_ —they worry her.

she is old, but she still tries her best to shine despite the tarnish. she is weary, and yet she still greets the Souls as they step past her threshold. they feel welcomed and warm, and it's something that no one ever questions, but it's her. it has _always_ been her.

she was a Home to countless Souls for many white-snow seasons. she _is_ Home.

she knows she's older, the earliest one of an older team. she's watched countless games, seen endless Souls pass through. but she's still strong.

she was once grand and beautiful and shiny and new, and all who saw her marveled at her beauty. she was _lovely_.

but the Souls…they talk of Another, one who is all the things that she is no longer. they speak of building, of breaking ground, and she…she is afraid.

for the first time in a great many seasons, she is afraid. it is not like her to be afraid, so she will remember so she can be strong. she remembers when she was grand, and wonders what this new one will be like, whether Mario will grow as close to That One as he did to her.

she is selfish, and she dislikes the idea of this New One, the idea that she will be forgotten to Another.

one night, after all the others have long left and sadly said they will not return, he comes to her and walks through her hallways in silence. she sends querying emotion at him, and his mind bristles, pushes her away. he stops at centre ice, looks up at her screens and her lights, and says, softly (so softly), "I'm sorry."

the words mean little to her, but their meaning is clear in his mind; a steady pulse of longing-yearning-sorrow that she takes to mean _, i will miss you_.

that she will miss him too does not need to be said: it is something that they both already know.

what also goes unsaid is that she will not have long to miss him.

she doesn't have many days left. she's known it for some time now. that doesn't stop her from fearing a time when she is alone.

but she will not show them her fear, though, because she is proud, and she is strong. she will not cry until the End.

they try to save her. Mario tries to save her, but she knows her fate. she knows it's futile. he comes to her, a mourning man already, and she comforts him the best she can.

(he, too, knows the futility in trying. it does not make him stop.)

he doesn't stop until they are taking her to pieces, and she howls in his mind as she's broken down.

the shrieks of metal as they take her apart are her cries for mercy, and though Mario understands the language, he pretends he's forgotten the words, blocks out the sound.

it's easier that way. he does not wish to listen to her die.

when where she once stood, proud and tall, is rubble, when he no longer hears her voice, it's as if he is alone in his own mind for the first time in decades.

he searches, for a whisper or a fragment or _anything_ , and he finds some, in her tiles that hold memory and thoughts.

but it's not _her_.

she still only barely exists, in bits and pieces of Her that hold flickers and fragments of thoughts and feeling and love. but it is not her who still exists; it is the tangential, ephemeral memory.

she is gone. she is _not_ gone.

(she is here; she has _always_ been here; she will always be here; she is not here; she was never here; she will _never_ be here.)

and now, if you listen very closely, you just might hear her Song floating on the breeze: blades on ice, the roar of a crowd, her love for her Souls, and her constant, undying, insurmountable joy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> concrit welcome and appreciated! 
> 
> title from the poem "A Woman Going Blind", by Rilke
> 
> She sat quite like the others, having tea.  
> She seemed, I noted, to hold her cup  
> somewhat differently from the others.  
> She smiled once. It almost hurt to see.
> 
> When everyone stood at the end and moved about,  
> chatting and laughing, and as it happened,  
> drifting through the rooms of the house,  
> I watched her. She followed after,
> 
> holding back a little, as if she feared  
> to draw attention to herself.  
> On her eyes, bright with happiness,  
> light shone as on the surface of a pond.
> 
> She moved at her own pace and took her time  
> as though there were something yet to be learned;  
> some threshold, which once she crossed over,  
> she would no longer feel her way, but fly.


End file.
